


Strictly Professional

by Aurumite



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Genre: Assisted Masturbation, M/M, idk is that even a thing, kink meme fill, weird medieval catholic views about sex and stuff, what's better than this; just guys being dudes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-05
Updated: 2015-05-27
Packaged: 2018-03-29 04:24:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3882190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aurumite/pseuds/Aurumite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A member of the Exalted family is, supposedly, too holy to be allowed to dirty his hands with baser needs. A servant is expected to take care of that for him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> To fill a prompt on tumblr's fe kink meme: "I once read that due to Catholic views on masturbation in medieval times, kings/princes sometimes had masturbators who did that for them. I'd really like to see Chrom/Frederick based on this. I'm not looking for a focus on the sinfulness of it but rather on Chrom being expected to let Frederick take care of that for him. Bonus points for Chrom noticing that Fred is affected too and doing something about it. (Dirty talk, grinding on him "accidentally", go wild! Have Fred soil the hotpants!)." 
> 
> Tbh I did a double-take when I read it because it sounds like something I'd request myself, it being so medievally catholic and all. I actually couldn't find a source to back up the fact, but whatever. It is true that physicians believed that without appropriate “seminal release,” the humours of the body would be thrown out of balance and cause health problems.
> 
> Anyway, I've also always had a headcanon that Chrom is TOO virile. Uncomfortably virile. Like his sex drive won't quit because he has magic Marth-blood and has come from a CENTURIES-OLD UNBROKEN DIRECT LINE which means every single person there was good at having kids, but he really wishes it would chill because it makes life very difficult sometimes.

Chrom spent his birthday in Ylisstol. It was a large affair, celebrating his entry into formal manhood, although as far as Chrom was concerned, he had been a man for quite some time. His body had more or less finished growing two years ago.

Still, it seemed to be more political than physical. He was required to be at Emmeryn's side for the majority of it, attending galas and meeting dignitaries and generally being in the public eye. She kept trying to teach him certain aspects of governing, and he tried to listen, but mostly he caught himself daydreaming about returning to the Shepherds. He missed the thrill of victory and the relief on the faces of his people. He missed Lissa's pranks, Sully's spars, and Vaike's funny stories around the fire at night.

He especially missed Frederick's deep voice waking him for training in the morning, and wondered if that was a strange thing to miss.

A lot changed. People addressed him differently, and an entirely different wardrobe was made for him. He was expected to keep his brand bared at all times. A priest was sent to his rooms one night to instruct him more specifically in how children were made, which was a conversation he had a hard time keeping from blushing during, and another appeared later to begin taking care of his needs.

Chrom was not new to this. He'd always been told that anything sexual without a loving partner, employed for the sole purpose of conceiving a child, went against Naga's teachings. That it cheapened the flesh and therefore the vessel for the spirit. (He wondered how much of it he believed, but then, the only person whose opinion he would trust on the matter was Emmeryn's, and there was no way he was broaching such an awkward topic with his own sister.) But men were imperfect creatures, the healer told him in his rooms that first night. As an Exalt, Chrom was bound to keep his soul pure and his hands unsullied, but as a man, terrible things could befall him if he did not find occasional release. The health risks were great and his health was paramount. He was instructed to call upon a cleric to relieve him when necessary.

At first, mortified, Chrom had tried to refrain entirely. Despite knowing this day would come, it still felt awkward to have someone he barely knew touching him. Yet only two days passed before he felt like a man possessed. Sex was all he could think about. A glimpse at a courtier wearing the new fashion—low-cut dresses over a tight corset—had him hard in a mere moment. On the second night he dreamt vividly of thrusting hard into someone—broad back, tight ass—and woke on the cusp of his climax with a start, expecting push-ups, because he thought he'd heard Frederick call his name. He was so close to coming he almost teared up. He was rutting against the mattress, still half in his dream, when he regained the presence of mind to call the healer back for the first time.

After that Chrom needed the man nightly. It was formal, sterile, clinical. He did not need to undress at all, but merely untie the front of his breeches. The cleric kept one simple pace with his hand, and Chrom kept as still as possible. Occasionally, detached small talk was made before. Hands were washed after.

Perhaps, were he raised in Kellam's or Stahl's social sphere, Chrom would have found this very uncomfortable and odd. But it was all he knew, and if it helped him abate what felt like ceaseless desire at times, he would take it. He was a prince and should act like it. This was his lot.

xXx

It was several weeks before he could return to the Shepherds, and he thought he'd never been so happy. It was wonderful to see Sumia again; even to see her trip. He was so glad for Lissa's silly yellow mop of hair. And embracing Frederick, feeling the rumble of his laugh, made him feel more at home than he ever did at the castle he'd grown up in.

He enjoyed his first self-hunted meal in what felt like far too long, and spent a lot of time catching up with everyone that night around the fire. He gave out Emmeryn's presents and well-wishes and caught Maribelle up on what he could piece together of Ylisstol gossip. He listened to them talk about what they'd accomplished in his absence.

He was practically glowing when they all parted for the night. Frederick walked with him to his room in the barracks, briefing him on the smaller, more boring details that he should know, as captain. Chrom suppressed a smile when he opened his door and found his bedsheets turned down and pyjamas laid out.

“By the way, milord,” Frederick said, apparently reaching the end of his list. “As the only two healers currently in our ranks are women, I have been instructed to take care of anything you may need. Please do not hesitate to ask.”

“Huh?”

Why would being a woman matter? Lissa and Maribelle had healed plenty of his cuts and bruises over the years, and he'd been grateful to them for it. Besides, he was sure Frederick didn't know what to do with a staff or a tome of light.

But then the great knight's meaning hit him, and he blushed hard. “Oh. That.”

Frederick was watching him carefully. “If milord is displeased with the idea, considering how long we have known each other, a replacement may easily be found.”

“No,” he said quickly. “This is fine.”

Awkward, perhaps. Frederick was very dear to him, and such a thing could seem almost intimate if Chrom let his mind wander—but Frederick certainly wasn't thinking anything like that. This was just another of his duties, routine and professional. Chrom should be just as mature and clean in his thoughts. Besides, he felt safe with Frederick. Comfortable. And the thought of his large hand wrapped around him, pumping—

Oh, gods. He felt his colour deepen and heat pool in his body. Had he ever gotten hard so fast in his life? Frederick was looking at him with something akin to concern. _Please don't make me say it._

“Now, then, sire?” was all he asked.

Chrom nodded. Frederick closed the door and then the distance between them. Chrom reached for his desk, dug through the pack he'd slung haphazardly onto it at his arrival, and fought back his blush as he handed Frederick the small bottle of oil given to him for exactly this occasion. This was not erotic. This was simply the life of a prince. Still, he fumbled with the tie to his breeches. Frederick brushed his hand away and unfastened it himself. Fingertips pressed gently against his head through his pants and then trailed down the length of him. It was a routine check of readiness, just as the cleric did it, but it made Chrom bite his lip hard. Why did this feel so much better than usual already?

“Would you prefer to sit?” Frederick asked. His voice sounded oddly husky. Chrom shook his head, already overeager to start.

“This is fine.”

Frederick opened the bottle. Chrom closed his eyes. Warm, slick fingers wrapped around him. It took everything he had not to gasp.

“Any critique would be appreciated,” Frederick murmured before he began to stroke.

Critique for what, Chrom wanted to ask. Surely Frederick meant to say he'd never touched another man before, but it wasn't as if he were _pleasuring_ Chrom. It was a solo activity, for the good of his health, that he needed a partner to complete. No romance. No sex. Nothing.

But gods, did it feel good. Frederick wasn't like the cleric in the palace. He touched Chrom like he might touch himself, for the delight of it, starting slow, pace faster and palm tighter when he saw Chrom's breathing speed up. It was hard to stay still, but he managed it. He opened his eyes as the pleasure began to mount. Was Frederick's face a little red? Was his own?

The knight pulled a handkerchief from his pocket. He'd come prepared. Chrom found the thought nicer than he probably should have. He jerked once. Frederick gripped harder.

“Nng—!” Clenching his teeth hard against a groan, managing to swallow most of it, he came into the soft cloth. Frederick's hand gentled, working him until his legs trembled and he'd spilled every drop.

“Was it all right?”

He was sure he was blushing now, and didn't think he was imagining Frederick's either.

“Perfectly all right,” he gasped.

“For my records: how often do you prefer this, milord?”

“Every night,” Chrom said as he caught his breath. “I can't concentrate on anything, otherwise. The clerics said I'm...virile.”

“Then I'll return tomorrow at the same time. Sleep well, sire.”

“Thank you. You too.” Chrom shakily sat on the edge of his cot and watched his knight leave.

It had been a little odd after all, but pleasantly so. Chrom lay in bed for a long time, just thinking, before he was able to fall asleep. Had Frederick actually...enjoyed that?

xXx

Chrom gave it a week before he could see it for sure. The way Frederick looked at his cock each time it was freed, how his breathing quickened alongside Chrom's, the way his lips parted each time Chrom spurted into whatever clean, white cloth he had provided to catch his seed.

Frederick definitely enjoyed it. And Chrom enjoyed _that_.

He also began to think that perhaps it wasn't fair for Frederick to simply tend to him. Why should he have to do all the work? Frederick always did all the work. Why couldn't Frederick ever receive any help? If he enjoyed it, why couldn't he take any pleasure of his own?

He would deny it, Chrom knew. This was supposed to be strictly professional. To cross that line would be wrong.

But Chrom liked the thought of that, too.

He began to think of ways that he could give a little back to his old friend without making him feel guilty or uncomfortable. He settled on something small, to start; decided to take it slow. Frederick, being Frederick, would surely be pleased to hear that he was doing an exceptional job. Chrom should let him know. To make it clear that no one else, in fact, would do. So the next night, as heat curled beneath his hipbones, Chrom didn't resist the urge to be just a little vocal.

“Oh, yes...”

The whisper escaped so softly he wasn't sure Frederick could hear it, until he saw Frederick's ribs hitch. Now that this had become routine, Chrom rarely stood to receive the knight's ministrations. This time he lay on his cot with Frederick sitting on its edge. He was close enough to reach out and trace his fingers between the other's legs, and he sorely wanted to, but he wasn't feeling that confident, yet. He filed the impulse away for later. It was becoming hard to think as his friend toyed with his speed, perhaps as if to prolong Chrom's pleasure. Which Frederick certainly shouldn't be doing, which made Chrom moan his name.

“Frederick...gods, Frederick...”

The knight bit his lip the second time his name left Chrom's. Chrom decided this was definitely a good thing to be doing. He closed his eyes and resolved to put on a show, slowly grinding his hips up into his friend's hand, matching his pace.

“Yes, just like that...Frederick, you're so...you're so much better at this than a healer...”

For that he received the ultimate reward: a choked moan, deep in the knight's throat. Chrom opened his eyes to smile at him through the haze of pleasure. He hadn't expected to earn it so easily.

“It's never felt so good...Frederick, I'm almost there...faster, please...”

Frederick made the same low noise as he complied and Chrom came almost immediately, arching and breathless, and when he came down from his high he realized he'd spilled over Frederick's warm fingers. Apparently the usual handkerchief had been forgotten in the excitement. Frederick pulled it out and cleaned Chrom gently before he did the same for his hand. Chrom decided to lie back and wait for Frederick to lace his pants back up, rather than doing it himself as he always did. He felt rather proud of himself.

But Frederick didn't turn around for a long moment.

“This is not meant to be pleasurable, sire,” he said finally.

Chrom decided not to bring up the fact that it got more and more pleasurable each time, as Frederick became more skilled with his hands, and that Frederick was doubtlessly doing it on purpose. “I'm sorry. You really do make it so. You've always been a bit of an overachiever, you know.”

Frederick paused again and then looked over his shoulder. He seemed oddly shy. “Please forgive me. I will endeavour to be more passive in my role, if milord prefers it.”

Chrom locked their eyes. “He doesn't.”

“I see.” A third pause, heavier and more intimate than the last, and then Frederick leaned over and re-tied Chrom's breeches. He murmured, "I am happy to do as milord says, then."

Before he left he brushed Chrom's hair away from his face, and that told Chrom more than anything that he should continue with his plan, wherever it led them.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Theeeeere's probably a lot more that could happen with this, so there might be more someday, idk. This is ok for now I hope.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was bribed.

After that night, Chrom was always vocal.

Frederick restrained his own noises well, but that just made Chrom even louder, hoping to drag them out of him. Sometimes it wasn't even Chrom's fault. Frederick definitely touched him to please him now, knowing that it was okay, and it was so hard to keep silent throughout. Several times Chrom wanted to beg him for kisses and caresses too, but had an uncomfortable thought that maybe Frederick would feel obliged to obey. So for now he could only roll his hips, and make the little noises that made Frederick bite his lip, and dream of it.

Which was what he was doing at that moment, as Frederick's hand ravaged him. He was so close that he was losing coherent thought. He couldn't contain his moans, each one louder than the last, and his hands clenched the blankets in desperation.

“Sire,” Frederick hissed, “you'll be heard.”

“Frederick—I—!”

The knight lay down beside him, pleading, “Use me,” and Chrom twisted as he obeyed, coming hard, grasping Frederick's shirt and biting down onto his shoulder to muffle his sharp cry. After it was over he needed a long moment to catch his breath and quit trembling. Frederick held him.

“Gods,” he muttered when he could. “I'm sorry.”

“If milord is satisfied, that is all that matters.”

“Let me see.”

Frederick allowed Chrom to unfasten his tie, unbutton his shirt, and pull it off his shoulder. Chrom tried to shove aside the new wave of desire that came with seeing his bare skin. He'd imprinted deep bite marks, which were already bleeding violet into a ring. Frederick glanced down at the bruise with amusement.

“I'm sorry,” Chrom said again.

“If milord is satisfied,” Frederick repeated softly, “that is all that matters.”

The following nights, Chrom wasn't nearly as loud. Instead, Frederick left each time with new bruises littering his shoulders, arms, and collarbone. Chrom always made sure to suck a little harder and use a little more tongue than was necessary, especially if he could reach the bare skin of his neck, and soon Frederick always left with bruised lips, too, after biting them so often to swallow his gasps. Little victories, but Chrom would take them, until he could think of something better.

xXx

One night, Frederick didn't leave right away. Chrom had cried his name when he climaxed—something he'd planned to do ahead of time, but it burst out so naturally when the time came—and Frederick just kept lying alongside him as he caught his breath. The silence between them was warm, comfortable. Their faces were very close as they shared his pillow. Chrom figured now was the best time to probe about what had been bothering him so much.

“Frederick?” he ventured quietly. “Would you do anything I asked?”

“Without hesitation, sire.”

“Wait. Even if it was something you really didn't want to do?”

“Of course.”

Chrom frowned at that. “Like eat an entire bear?”

“It would be difficult but I would tackle the trial with gusto.” Frederick lifted his head slightly. “Does milord require it? I shall begin training tomorrow.”

“No, no! I just...what about what you want?”

“What _about_ what I want?”

“You hate bear.”

“I desire what milord desires. If you wish it of me, I am happy to obey.”

“Great.” Chrom's heart sank gloomily further into his stomach with every answer he got. “Well, what if... If you wanted something of me—something you didn't know I wanted too, not for sure—would you ask for it?”

“Certainly not. I would never ask any boon of you.”

“Why?”

“I am here for you to depend on. To make your life easier. I would never add anything to your plate if I could help it.”

There was an odd look in Frederick's eye, something that told Chrom that for all his efforts, he wasn't being the least bit subtle.

“I see,” Chrom said.

“Sire.” Frederick moved a hand as if to cup Chrom's chin, but only his first finger and the tip of his thumb grazed it. It was hardly a touch at all. It still sent a jolt through him. “You are my prince. To overstep myself is an egregious breach of duty.”

“I know.” He shut his eyes.

None of it was fair. If he asked for Frederick to be more than his nightly aide, Frederick would say yes, regardless of his true feelings. That meant nothing, least of all what Chrom wanted it to mean. And even if Chrom had an inkling of what Frederick's feelings were, it wasn't right to force Frederick into anything. He could have any number of reasons for not wanting to enter a relationship. But he could never explain them, never even bring them up, because he saw it as against the rules. Completely off-limits. Regardless of the way his eyes softened sometimes, or how he remained even now, lying so close.

That left Chrom no choice.

He had to be so irresistible that Frederick would have no other option but to drop his detached facade. He'd need to provoke Frederick into acting, into taking what he wanted, forcing them onto even ground. A team effort, that; both of them brazenly giving in. They'd go far out of line together. And then they'd have to talk about it later.

“Here's something I want,” Chrom said.

“Yes, sire?”

“Tomorrow, I'd like to see you twice.”

Chrom locked their eyes. He couldn't help the smirk that crossed his face and reveled in the blush that spread across Frederick's.

“Yes, sire,” he repeated in a murmur.

xXx

Chrom ended up not getting his way. The Shepherds' aid was called upon the next morning, by a village a few days away that had been plagued by bandit raids. They began their march at once.

Camp schedules were much more erratic than life at the barracks. It wasn't possible for Frederick to simply come to him at the same time every night and shut a door against Chrom's stubborn moaning, however muffled. They hardly had the time to see each other outside of going over tactics or supply reports, and Chrom had so many more needs to think about besides his own. He wanted to make sure Lissa was comfortable and eating enough, Sully felt appropriately challenged, Kellam got enough attention, and Vaike didn't get bored (mayhem often ensued when Vaike got bored). His lust cooled for days at a time while he adapted to new meals and meal times, aching feet after long miles traveled, night watches, finding water and digging latrines.

He and Frederick managed to communicate without words, for the most part, when they had the time. Little gestures could convey exactly what he was thinking even with the others around—sometimes gripping Frederick's knee under the mess table, sometimes just a simple look. Frederick even checked occasionally, too, raising an eyebrow or gingerly touching the small of his back. They'd excuse themselves separately, meet at Chrom's tent, and he would do his best to keep quiet.

He never stopped with his plans. Once he started changing for bed when he knew Frederick would come, leaving himself shirtless as the great knight slipped in. Frederick had stared in a way that made Chrom feel quite proud indeed, but no matter how Chrom arched or twisted or flexed, his hands never wandered.

Once Chrom had woken from an extremely provocative dream in the middle of the night. Even the shifting of his breeches against his throbbing cock as he sat up was painful. He'd stumbled out of his tent, relieved to find Frederick on patrol before he got to his, because he wasn't sure how to wake the man up for something like this.

That night backfired on Chrom, somewhat. Rather than torturing Frederick, he only tortured himself, being secreted into the knight's tent and gently instructed to wait until his rounds were finished. Though Frederick hurried back, the wait was agony, and what came next was hardly release. He was guided down to the bedroll, onto sheets that smelled like the other man, and Frederick knelt atop him to begin the most Frederick-like foreplay he could have imagined—if he dared to call it foreplay. It was like they had all the time in the world before dawn, and Frederick was determined to exhaust him and make up for the sleep he'd lost due to lust. Feather-light touches at first, up and down his length through his pants, then a little firmer, then he was being palmed and gripped and Chrom squirmed, desperate for more. Once his cock was freed the same, gentle process began again until he thought he might go mad. Frederick went so slowly he thought he'd never come, and when he finally did, with a bright wash of white pleasure, even that happened gently.

“Oh,” he'd moaned as he recovered. What a failure. He'd been there in Frederick's own bed and even that hadn't been enough. What else could possibly tempt the man? Prompt him? Break him?

“My handkerchief is still in the wash,” said Frederick, sounding slightly put-out. And then, as if he'd sensed Chrom's thoughts, Chrom saw him—just barely through the darkness—begin to lick the cum from his fingers, thorough as a cat.

_That_ and he couldn't justify touching Chrom's bare chest?

“You're impossible,” said Chrom, voice raw.

“I could say much the same to you, milord.”

xXx

The bandits were incredibly wily. If Chrom'd had any time to feel frustrated about his _whatever it was_ with Frederick, it would have been erased immediately at the sight of the woman weeping at the village gates, for her entire house had been burnt in the last looting.

It wasn't as if the Shepherds could simply rout the wrongdoers, either. They had a base but didn't keep to it, instead moving constantly, between four or five villages within a couple days of each other, raiding one place and returning just when the villagers of another thought they were safe. This was Chrom's first experience with anything close to guerrilla warfare and the others were relying on him to adapt quickly. He stayed up late going over tactics. They tracked their targets relentlessly. He trained hard in every spare moment.

It was two weeks before they finally found the freshest trail yet, and looked through the patterns to guess with good reason which village the bandits would attack next. They came up with a plan of action and marched to a strategic position to camp. For a moment he had space to breathe.

Sadly, for Chrom, that could be dangerous. It reminded him that it had been two entire weeks since he'd been touched.

He suffered through persistent arousal all morning, but tried to hold out for a convenient time. A time when he wasn't completely surrounded by other people doing their midmorning chores. He had chores to do as well, and it he couldn't do them properly if he was daydreaming about that night in Frederick's tent, only this time he was the one on top, and Frederick was the one biting his shoulder to stay quiet, so tight around him, still mostly dressed in Chrom's desperation to have him, and as he thrusted he kept working to pull off Frederick's gods-damned impeccably knotted tie—

“Everyone performed well at training this morning,” Frederick reported cheerfully as he passed on the path. “We've all earned a break for the midday meal.”

And he loosened his tie just slightly and Chrom _snapped_.

“Frederick,” he said urgently, grabbing his arm. “ _Frederick._ This is agony. I can't wait one more second.”

“I've been wondering about that. But you must, sire, for we certainly can't do anything about that in the middle of camp.” Still, Frederick looked concerned as he repeated, “Agony?”

“Please. I won't make it until nightfall. I need you.”

Frederick's ears turned red at that, which made Chrom smile.

“Have a cold bath, milord.”

“But I—” Frustrated, Chrom looked about and tried hard to clear his head. “Everyone's about to go prepare lunch. I should help. Not relax.”

“You've been working hard. We can surely spare you that long.”

And so, feeling like he had no other choice, Chrom went.

xXx

By the time he got to the bathing tent, he had cooled and calmed down somewhat. A cold bath sounded unpleasant now, but since he was already there and Frederick would expect him at lunch with wet hair, he drew something warmer. Warmth could be relaxing too.

He undressed slowly. Threw his clothes over the back of a chair so they wouldn't wrinkle too much. Sank into the steaming water. Ducked his head under for a moment. Eased against the back of the tub. Closed his eyes.

And then he heard the tent flap open, despite the very clear camp rule that one was not to go into the bathing tent if the flap was closed. His eyes shot open to find Frederick, armourless.

“Huh?” he said, intelligently.

“I did not want you to wait a moment longer than necessary,” Frederick answered with an impossibly straight face. Despite the heat of the water, Chrom felt himself tremble as he sat forward. “You seemed to be suffering. I know some men enjoy denial, at least for a little while, but I do not know if milord is among them.”

“It's not exactly pleasant,” Chrom said as he flushed. “Sometimes it's all too much to deal with, honestly. I wish it would just stop.”

“Then I see I've made the right decision.”

_I'm not hard any longer,_ Chrom opened his mouth to protest, but it was already something of a lie. The surprise of seeing Frederick walk in, the thrill of being touched in such a public place, watching him roll up his sleeves started the stirring in his groin all over again.

“The others,” he protested, more for Frederick's sake as the knight knelt beside the tub. “You're not going to panic about someone walking in?”

“The tent flaps are closed.”

“Didn't stop you.”

“Everyone is on mess duty.”

“Did you triple-check?” Chrom teased, and laughed when Frederick nodded in complete seriousness.

As always, Frederick didn't seem to feel nearly as light-hearted. His eyes followed the water droplets falling from Chrom's hair, the way it collected above his collarbone, down the muscled planes of his chest with an intense focus. It made Chrom flush again, imagining his friend's hands mapping him out or his tongue cleaning off water, and a warmth gathered in his stomach that wasn't entirely lust.

“It's all right, if you want to,” Chrom said quietly.

“I want only to serve you.”

_Frederick, you are missing the damn point,_ Chrom wanted to say, but speech evaded him when Frederick's hand slipped under the water and wrapped around his half-hard length, slowly teasing beneath his head with his thumb until he was fully erect.

And then there was only gently sloshing water, Chrom's own uneven breathing, and the sweet pleasure he felt. Despite wondering how much better everything would feel with Frederick's mouth now, he still tried to focus on the moment, the heat gathering in his middle. Soon Frederick's other hand slipped under the water. Chrom's balls were already tightening and he groaned as the knight stroked them. 

“Frederick...” He pulled him close, ignoring how wet that might get him, for Frederick didn't seem to mind either. He meant to bite down on his neck but what happened instead were soft, messy, open-mouthed kisses up his throat, up his jaw, nibbling at his ear.

Frederick's hands retreated to brace himself on the edge of the tub and Chrom moaned into his ear, disappointed.

“You shouldn't do that,” he said shakily. “I don't mind, but—this just isn't wise, Chrom, you shouldn't—”

“What did you just call me?”

In the past, whenever Chrom managed to make Frederick blush, it was slight: the tips of his ears, perhaps streaked up his cheekbones if Chrom was particularly successful. This time his entire face turned bright red.

“Please forgive me, sire,” he stammered. _Stammered._ “I forgot myself.”

“But I liked it.”

The blush remained. Frederick's hands slid back under the water and resumed their duty. Chrom resumed being as difficult as possible.

“I really liked it,” he murmured before biting Frederick's ear again, licking the shell. Frederick's breathing grew harsh and his grip tightened, which felt incredible under the water, where there was no friction to worry about. Chrom's fingers dug into his shirt. “Frederick...”

His exhalations became breathless moans as he writhed under Frederick's deft hands, caressing, speeding up, toying with his head. Chrom began to rut against them, muscles tensing.

The knight's free hand slid suddenly, firmly, up his ribs and under his arm to grasp his bicep and tug up. Chrom followed the prompt to stand as a dim logic in the back of his mind told him he shouldn't come in his bath water. The stroking kept on, built to something frantic as moisture kept him slick. Their gazes met and held fast and broke only when Frederick pulled the handkerchief from his pocket. When Chrom climaxed, the delight was blinding, weakening his knees until he nearly collapsed back into the water. He tightened his hold on Frederick to stay upright and watched the handkerchief fall to the ground. He pulled back a bit and looked the other man over while he caught his breath.

His front was wet from Chrom clinging to him, shirt sticking to his skin. Chrom found himself far more interested in the way the trail of dampness trickled downward, directing his attention to how Frederick's breeches were clinging to the large bulge between his legs. It was impossible to ignore, really.

“You've gotten dirty again,” Frederick said in a low voice, and Chrom groaned and buried his face in his shoulder.

“Keep talking like that and we're going to have to do this all over.”

Frederick smiled as Chrom pulled away. They were still for a moment, arms remaining loosely wrapped around each other, and then Frederick's gaze returned to Chrom's chest.

“You said it was all right?” he asked, very softly. “To touch you elsewhere?”

“I did,” answered Chrom.

“In that case...” Frederick hesitated but then put his hands on Chrom's shoulders, pushing gently, guiding him back into the water. Chrom was confused until he reached for the soap.

It was simultaneously the first time he'd felt bashful around Frederick and the nicest bath he'd ever had. There was nothing truly sensual about it, despite the knight's hands all over his body, cleaning away the day's efforts and rubbing out the occasional knot. That was what made it so intimate, Chrom felt. It was a much more vulnerable position to be caught in than fucking his hand.

“You next?” he asked as Frederick worked, and added a silent _please_ though he knew better than to utter it, for Frederick would take it as an order.

His answer was disappointingly predictable: “Milord has more important things to attend to.”

Once he was clean, Frederick helped him up, helped him dry, and helped him dress despite all his protests. It was a jarring feeling when they were finished. The past hour had felt like a retreat, separate from everything, and he was reluctant to leave the tent again. He felt calm and relaxed, at least. Frederick, whose still-wet pants betrayed thoughts that had resurfaced when he was helping Chrom dress, surely did not agree. Chrom hesitated by the entryway.

“Lunchtime, sire,” Frederick coaxed.

“You're kidding, right? You're all wet. You can't leave like that.”

“My clothes will dry faster in the sun.”

“Your clothes aren't what I'm talking about.” Chrom glanced pointedly between his legs and Frederick blushed all over again.

“It's nothing,” he insisted. “Happenstance.”

Chrom didn't argue. He supposed that to admit otherwise would be very unprofessional and indecent, perhaps even get Frederick into a lot of trouble. He still enjoyed the thought.

“You should take a bath, too,” Chrom said. “While your clothes dry out.”

“The coldest, sire,” he promised.

“No. A warm one.”

“It isn't necessary.”

“I think I'll order it.”

Frederick's eyebrow shot up while he decided whether Chrom was serious, but Chrom folded his arms comfortably and stared until he became clear that he wasn't moving. He saw his friend swallow before, finally, his eyes dropped to the ground and he tugged his tie off. He slowly unbuttoned the front of his wet shirt. Peeled it off his skin. Chrom's smile grew at each new inch of skin exposed, how his shoulders rolled as he shrugged out of the sleeves, the incredible build of every muscle, carefully shaped to its most ideal. In a way, he supposed, it had all been for him. Years and years of training to keep him safe.

Chrom watched him pointedly and with appreciation, but finally left when Frederick somewhat helplessly reached for the tie to his breeches. His arousal was obvious, yes, but Chrom guessed he'd be embarrassed for Chrom to have more definite proof. So he left him to his privacy and his—hopefully very long and relaxing—bath.

After all, Frederick wasn't royalty. Frederick could take care of himself, for now.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chrom confirmed for Actual Worst.


End file.
